


You're Like Me (a goddamn idiot)

by yellowhairedrobot



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Embarrassed Daryl, Jesus pursues Daryl, Kissing, M/M, abraham is everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowhairedrobot/pseuds/yellowhairedrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesus tilted his head to the side. “If I tried to kiss you right now, would you kick my ass?”</p><p>“Yes,” Daryl answered, way too quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Like Me (a goddamn idiot)

When the group got back from the Hilltop, Daryl slouched off without talking to anyone. Let the others disperse the supplies. Abraham, acting all quiet and determined all of sudden, like he’d come to some big personal decision he had no intention of sharing with anyone. Maggie and Glenn, in their own hazy, happy bubble, exchanging those nauseatingly wet-eyed, lovey looks. Even Rick and Michonne were acting like they'd stumbled out of a Valentine's Day card, sneaking touches and smiles as they helped unload the Hilltop haul. They practically had cartoon hearts pulsing out of their eyes. Idiots, every one of them. Daryl was exhausted, and wired, and needed to be alone.

Not two minutes after he left the crowd around the gates, a stamp of footsteps fell into line with Daryl's. His shoulders went up, and when he looked over and saw the long, swinging hair and wool cap, he could've groaned out loud.

It almost went without saying, but Jesus was going to be a problem. 

He was an obnoxious son of a bitch, and reckless, if jumping on top of a truck and fighting for it all the way into a lake said anything about the guy’s character. Plus, he had a cocky grin that lit up his eyes in a way Daryl just didn’t trust. Not the  _he's-gonna-knife-me-in-my-sleep_  kind of mistrust, but something different. Something that set Daryl’s stomach on edge when Jesus stepped in front of his path and grinned at him in that eye-twinkling, too-knowing way.

"What d'you want?" Daryl grunted. Jesus sighed a little, and smiled. 

"To thank you. For what you did back there."

"Wasn't nothing." Daryl tried sidestepping him. Hippie son of a bitch blocked his way.

"You hardly know us," Jesus insisted. "Deciding to stand up to Negan -- I don't know how you'll manage it."

"We'll manage."

A smile twitched Jesus's lips, and there was something frustrating in his eyes, like he was inwardly laughing at Daryl. "You people are all confidence."

Daryl made a noise that didn't exactly encourage the conversation to continue. Son of a bitch continued it anyway, following Daryl as he went skulking down the street.

“So, you might’ve noticed, but you and I kinda got off on the wrong foot.”

Daryl snorted. He shouldn't have, 'cause that only egged Jesus on. Another smile flitted over his face, like they were sharing some secret joke. Jesus looked around, all furtive, and gestured for Daryl to come with him down a grassy alley between two of Alexandria’s too-nice, too-white houses. It was strange to think, that here at the fall of civilization, Daryl was living in a nicer neighborhood than he ever would’ve back when the world was turning in the right direction.

Jesus leaned against one of the houses, his hair hanging in his eyes, which glinted with mischief. Daryl glanced behind them; no one around, from what he could see, unless someone was peering through their window curtains. He was pretty sure this neck of the neighborhood was unoccupied, though.

That's why he liked walking 'round here. No one to bother him. Usually.

The way Jesus was leaning against the siding, you’d have thought him calm as anything, but he did fidget slightly. He pawed his beard with a quick, nervous scratch. He squinted at Daryl, searching him. Choosing his words.

“So ... I’ve been looking around, and ... everyone here seems to have a little … something going on. Glenn and Maggie. Abraham and that hot chick. I know for a fact Rick's doing well for himself."

Daryl jerked away, glaring at the ground. A sour taste filled his mouth and he wanted to spit. "What d'you know about it?"

"I know you're about the only person who got back to town and didn't run into someone's waiting arms."

Daryl made a show of rolling his eyes.

“I s’pose you want to tell me ... it’s by choice. You’re a loner. You don’t _like_ other people.”

“S’pose I don’t want to tell you shit,” Daryl grumbled.

As he spoke, Jesus, for reasons beyond Daryl’s capacity to comprehend, reached for Daryl’s belt and put a finger on the hilt of his knife.  He slid his hand down the shaft, watching Daryl's eyes as he did it, until he’d wrapped his fingers around the knife and pulled it right out of its sheath. Daryl jerked forward a little, at the resistance. He was pretty sure he had a rock stuck in the back of his throat, because he was having the damn hardest time swallowing.

“I think,” said Jesus, “there’s more to you than that.”

Jesus twiddled the knife in his hands, letting the point of the blade press into the pad of his finger, indenting the flesh without cutting it. Daryl should snatch it out of his hands. He told himself to, but for some reason he couldn’t make himself move. 

He had a feeling Jesus was testing him, seeing if he  _would_  rip that knife back. Reckless, like Daryl thought. Obnoxious.

"I know how you look at Rick,” Jesus said, twisting that knife along his fingertip.

Son of a bitch. Daryl swallowed, and that stone in his throat dropped into his chest.

"And I know how you looked when he went off with his girl.” Jesus glanced up at him, eyes half-lidded, that blade twitching over the pad of his finger. His words were heat skating across Daryl’s skin. “S'the same look you've got right now."

He could slam Jesus's head into the clapboard siding, crack his skull in two, alliance with the Hilltop be damned, Jesus be  _damned_. Rage boiled up in Daryl, burning the back of his throat. 

And yet Jesus was all calm, leaning against that wall like he was boneless, eyes on Daryl so penetrating they might’ve looked right through him. He gave no reaction to Daryl’s flaring nostrils or darkening complexion.

“I know you’re like me,” he said.

Daryl blinked. “The hell does that mean?” His voice came out a hoarse growl. Jesus showed no sign of intimidation. Instead, his eyes crinkled. He was laughing. 

“Think you know what it means.”

_Prick._

Daryl didn't say anything. His skin was itching, he needed to leave, run, go off by himself.

And it had nothing to do with the way Jesus was looking at him.

“Seeing as how we have some ...  _common interests_ ,” Jesus said delicately, pushing off from the wall, “I wanted to put it out there … that if you ever wanted to ... relieve a little  _stress_...”

"Come on," Daryl hissed under his breath, looking away. If anyone heard this shit—

That damnable twinkle in his eye, Jesus closed the distance between them and slid Daryl’s knife back in its sheath. Daryl went a little dizzy; he wasn’t sure he had any blood left in his brain. 

“Just something to think about,” Jesus said, and he slid around Daryl, purposefully brushing his shoulder and knocking him back. 

Yeah, thought Daryl as he stomped off in the opposite direction, with no idea where he was going.

Jesus was going to be a problem.

#

Daryl didn’t want to give Jesus the satisfaction of thinking about him or his proposal for one second.

So, naturally, it was the only thought in his head all night.

#

“Well, look at that,” Abraham said as Daryl slouched into the room the next morning. “You've showered. Has it been a month already?”

“Shut up,” Daryl grumbled. He picked a gun off the table and toyed with it. Rick was bent over a map, marking possible scavenging opportunities. Jesus watched as Daryl sagged against the wall. He quirked an eyebrow, which Daryl showed great dignity in ignoring. The longhaired hippie prick.

“All right,” said Rick, straightening up. “There’s a couple strip malls off the highway we haven’t reached yet. Might take a day or two to work through ‘em all. We split into pairs, each start at one end, clear the stores one by one?”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Abraham, nodding. Daryl couldn’t imagine the effort he put into standing so straight all the time. Like he had a rod crammed right up his—

“Daryl and I will start on the south end,” Rick said, rolling up the map. “Abraham, you and Jesus go north—” 

“I’ll take Jesus,” Daryl heard himself say.

Considering no one else fell to the floor clutching their throats and gasping for oxygen, Daryl must’ve been the only one to notice all the air leave the room. If the wall weren’t holding him up, he wasn’t sure his legs would’ve. He hadn’t known he was going to say that. No part of him  _wanted_  to say that. He mentally cursed every muscle in his tongue for such a goddamn betrayal. 

Only Rick looked halfway surprised. Daryl found himself fidgeting. 

“S’just—” Daryl made himself shrug, and put as much contempt into a glare at Jesus as his racing heart and desert dry mouth could allow. “—I’d rather keep m’eye on him.”

“Sure,” said Rick. Like it was nothing. He swung his pack over his shoulder and grabbed his gun. “Let's head out, try to make it back before sundown.”

Daryl kept his head ducked as he followed Rick out of the room. Abraham was right behind him, with that round-shouldered stomp of a bulldog. Jesus just stood there as they passed, his arms crossed over his chest, looking at the floor like he’d won something.

No one better have noticed the smirk on that asshole's face.

#

“Find anythin’?”

They were in the back office of a travel agent’s, the first stop on their strip mall raid. The front room hadn’t gleaned much, a bag of Skittles in a desk drawer, couple bottles of aspirin, a stash of emergency tampons in the dusty, foul-smelling bathroom Daryl figured some ladies back in Alexandria would be over the moon about. This office smelled like death—there was a fish tank almost black with algae in the corner, goldfish all floating along the top. The two Walkers they had found were already dead, knife-wounds in their foreheads and a putrid stench coming off their decomposing skin.

Jesus was rooting through a file cabinet. They both had flashlights; the window blinds were half-drawn, but the glass was so dirty only a little sunlight came through. 

“Pencils,” he said, sounding disappointed. He shook a box of number two’s at Daryl. “Some bottles of glue.”

“Might as well take ‘em.”

One of the cabinets wouldn’t open; Daryl wedged a knife into the lock, and the hinge snapped open. Inside, a small bounty: it must’ve been the snack cabinet. The packets of cheese and crackers had gone moldy, even though the cheese must’ve been as artificial as you could get. But there was a whole box of little bags of pretzels. Daryl knifed it open and pulled one out, shaking it as he held it out to Jesus.

“That’s something, at least.” Jesus snatched the bag and broke it open. He bit into a pretzel—his chewing quickly lost its enthusiasm.

“Stale as hell?” guessed Daryl. He took a handful of pretzels and shoved them in his mouth. Yeah, it was like biting into salted pieces of tree bark. “Still calories,” he said, spitting crumbs.

“You see me complaining?” Jesus took another handful, as Daryl did; it was stupid, to react to that. Their hands touching. Jesus’s eyebrow went up, and Daryl gave him no reaction. Just kept pounding back the worst tasting pretzels he’d ever eaten. They stood there, sharing the snack, and it might’ve been funny, how resolutely Daryl was avoiding Jesus’s eye.

They emptied the cabinet of pretzels, dusty Pringles canisters, and a couple warm bottles of soda Daryl would sneak to Denise. Jesus went back to prying open the desk drawers, while Daryl scavenged through the rest of the cabinets. They worked in an almost comfortable silence, before Jesus, being Jesus, had to ruin it.

“Does anyone know? About you?”

Daryl tensed, the way you do when you’re out in the woods, walking along, and hear a stick snap under feet that weren’t your own. He didn’t look back at Jesus. He knew exactly what he was asking, and he wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction of an answer. 

Though, if he denied it, Jesus would just laugh at him. And if he said nothing, the idiot would only keep talking. 

Fuck it. The prick. 

“Nah,” he said, and reached to the back of a cabinet for a pen that had rolled into the corner. Someone always needed a pen, right? “Hasn’t come up.”

“I can see that.” Jesus had abandoned looking through the desks and was now hoisting himself to sit on top of one, legs swinging beneath him, shoes scraping through the dust on the floor. “World coming to an end, some people start tearing at each other’s clothes ‘cause it’s the only thing that makes them feel alive. For others, there’s too much else going on to think about. That kind of stuff seems ... extraneous.”

“Let me guess, you’re a clothes-tearing kind of guy.”

Jesus’s eyebrows waggled. Daryl snorted and shook his head.

Then, he said, “M’brother might’ve known.”

“Yeah?”

He kept rooting through the cabinet, taking out notepads, boxes of pens, tape dispensers. “Well. Merle didn’t  _know_ , but. He sensed somethin’ off about me.” He piled the supplies beside him, aware that Jesus was just sitting there, looking at him. Daryl kept talking. “That I was weak. Too shy and quiet. He knew there was somethin’ wrong, but ... he never would’ve guessed _that_.” The cabinet was empty. Daryl straightened up. “He’d’a killed me. If he knew.”

Jesus looked at him, straight at him, flat and serious and genuine. “I’m glad he didn’t know.”

Daryl sighed. “This stays between us? Whatever—whatever we do?”

That serious look turned to a seriously infuriating leer. “You planning on doing something?”

“Didn’t say that.”

A slow smile spread over Jesus’s face. 

“C’mere.”

Daryl snorted. “Like hell.”

“Alright.” Lazily, Jesus slid off the desk and sauntered over to Daryl. Daryl lurched backwards, until he’d bumped into the cabinets and cornered himself. Great.

A tight heat coiled in his throat, a lump he couldn’t quite swallow down. Jesus was standing right in front of him, practically nose to nose, those saucer-big eyes glinting, long hair framing his face, his breath hot on Daryl’s skin.

“This ain’t a good idea,” Daryl mumbled. 

“Probably not.” Jesus's hands came up and cupped Daryl’s cheeks. Their noses bumped—

“Nah,” Daryl turned away. “I ain’t doing that.”

Jesus pulled back, perplexed. “What? Kiss?”

A heaviness in his legs rooted Daryl to the spot, and that light trickling through the window must’ve been brighter than it seemed, ‘cause he was pretty sure his face had broken into a sunburn. Heat was rolling off him. Sizzling.

Jesus still had his hands on Daryl’s cheeks. Slowly, they slid down to his shoulders. His fingertips dug into his wrinkled, worn vest.

“S’just—” He couldn’t explain it. But  _that_ —kissin’, doing something all handsy and lovey—the thought of that embarrassed the hell out of him. 

“No worries,” Jesus interrupted. His fingers drummed on Daryl’s shoulders, and that glint in his eye grew—what would you even call it?  _Glint-ier?_  “Mind if I do ... something else?”

Yeah, Daryl’s face was definitely on fire.

“I’m going to take your silence as an encouraging  _maybe_ ,” said Jesus. 

He was enjoying making Daryl squirm, which pissed Daryl off even more. If he was so enraged, though, so damn offended, why couldn’t he get his feet to move?

“I don’t have to kiss your mouth. What about …  _here_?” 

Jesus’s breath ghosted over Daryl’s cheek, before planting his lips against the turn of his jaw. And that wasn’t any ordinary, quick smooch.  _Jesus_. Jesus’s mouth opened too much, and his lips moved all slow and sensual. He dragged his teeth down to Daryl’s throat, and it was like he was lapping at melting ice cream. Daryl heard himself grunt, and tilted his head over, giving Jesus a little more skin to explore. 

So now his neck could be added to the list of body parts betraying him. Daryl felt like he was split in half, operating on two different planes. Half of him was rooted to the spot, his spine ramrod straight, his legs weighed down by iron, his shoulders hiked and tense and stiff. That part of him burned with embarrassment over what was happening right now. 

The other parts of Daryl, they were just – he didn’t  _know_  what they were doing. 

When Jesus trailed his mouth to the hollow of Daryl’s throat, Daryl’s hands moved—entirely of their own accord—and grabbed Jesus’s hips. His fingers dug into his jeans. His knees were knocking. Since when had he ever been weak-kneed? Maybe those pretzels had been  _too_  stale, and this was food poisoning, and the hot coiling in his gut was actually a warning of an epic shit about to spray out of him—

Daryl snorted,  _laughed_ , which had nothing to do with Jesus’s tickling tongue, _nothing._ But Jesus, being the self-absorbed, cocky asshole he was, thought it was because of him. So he grinned, and chuckled all deep and low in his throat, and when he pulled Daryl’s shirt away from his shoulder, he  _bit_ into the soft flesh above Daryl’s collarbone. Daryl’s laugh turned feral, something groaning and humiliating—something that made Jesus smash into him, full-bodied, and start pawing his clothes off just like they’d talked about—like someone at the end of the world thirsty to feel alive.

Somehow Daryl ended up pushed onto the countertop, clutching the edge, his heels kicking the cabinet door  while Jesus knelt in front of him, making quick work of Daryl’s jeans—he tugged his underwear down so fast Daryl slid forwards and nearly fell off the counter. For some reason that made them both laugh—Shit, they were making some noise. Daryl’s fingers clutched the edge of the countertop, knuckles white, the cords of muscles in his arms standing out. Jesus’s hair was tickling Daryl’s inner thighs, his beard scraping Daryl’s balls as he planted furry, sucking kisses. Daryl’s brain had shorted out. He hoped to hell there weren’t any more shitheads in this building, because if a Walker burst in right now, Daryl wasn’t entirely sure he’d have the dexterity or presence of mind to do a damn thing about it.

Jesus’s lips slipped over Daryl’s cock; Daryl found himself sucking in breath, trying not to react. Heat might've been blazing in waves up his body, firecrackers sputtering to life in his head, spitting sparks, but he wasn't going to give this hippie freak the satisfaction of a reaction.

And then that hippie freak did something with his tongue that made Daryl let out a  _whimper_. Like he was some goddamn wounded animal.

He tensed, after he made that sound, sure that Jesus was going to tease him for it. Instead, Jesus did the thing again, flicking his tongue across the head of Daryl’s cock and sucking—no,  _slurping_ —even harder. Daryl let out a totally different noise this time—he wasn’t sure if he was moaning or laughing. The bite of fingernails in his thighs made him look down—Jesus was grinning up at him, lips red and wet around Daryl’s cock. Piece of shit never stopped smiling, did he, never stopped winning something over on Daryl, even in the middle of—of— _nng_ —even in the middle of this.

Daryl sunk his fist into Jesus’s hair when he came, and probably yanked a few strands out by the roots. Good.

Gradually, the room stopped spinning, and the strobe lights behind Daryl’s eyes faded to a few muddled black splotches. He sagged against the cabinets, boneless, his jeans hanging around his damn ankles. He watched, heavy-lidded, as Jesus stood back up, moving all lazy and graceful, like fluid turned solid.

Jesus sunk his hands into Daryl’s vest and pulled him forwards. He was all moon-eyed and grinning, his lips glistening in a way Daryl didn’t want to think about. Because it made him want to touch them, and he wasn’t kissing this prick. No way. 

Maybe that was a poor choice of words. Because he was definitely considering some reciprocation. He sat up, clearing his throat, and slid himself back into his jeans. They were both sweating, hair sticking to their pink, flushed cheeks. 

“You want me to...” His voice came out a gravelly mumble. He could’ve sworn, this close up, that Jesus’s eyes dilated at the sound.

But then Jesus swallowed, and shook his head. “Not if you—I’m good. We can stop here.”

“Nah,” said Daryl, and he grabbed Jesus’s hips and twisted him around, so he was the one cornered, backed against the cabinets. “M’done with you calling the shots.”

#

The next day, Daryl was sitting on the wall protecting Alexandria, watching out for any approaching threats. Besides a cloud in the distance that might’ve been bringing rain, there didn’t seem to be much to worry about. 

Other than the whole host of thoughts rolling around in Daryl’s head, but he was ignoring every one of them. Mostly because, once he started thinking about Jesus, he tended to start grinning, and that shit needed to be stamped down immediately.

He heard the ladder rattle behind him, and watched as a man’s shadow poured over him, but refused to acknowledge Jesus’s approach until the guy was next to him, crinkling a bag of pretzels above Daryl’s head. 

“Pinched another one. Thought you might be hungry.”

Daryl grunted, and took the bag. After a moment, he made himself say, “Thanks.” 

Jesus sighed as he sat beside him. The wind blew his hair back from his face. He certainly looked like he should be in some glossy, kitschy church painting, hands clasped in prayer and a halo dangling over his head. Then Daryl had a sharp flash of a memory, that longhaired hippie knelt between Daryl’s legs doing something far different from praying. He choked on the pretzel he was chewing.

“Stale as hell,” he grunted. He fished in the bag for more. “Growing on me.”

Jesus took a handful; Daryl could tell he was having a hard time chewing them. This batch was even worse than the one from yesterday. Like eating gravel. Still, Jesus forced a swallow and said, through slightly watering eyes, “Not bad, are they?” 

Daryl squinted at him, and a second later they were both grinning, laughing into their shoulders 'cause they were avoiding each other's eyes. Daryl shook his head, and tried to shake the grin off his face. 

Down below, a Walker shambled out of the trees and, lazily, impaled itself on Alexandria’s speared defenses. Was almost sad, like watching a moth getting zapped by a bug light.

“Ugly sons of bitches,” he said offhandedly, and nodded to the recently skewered Walker. Its skin was almost green, peeling off its face in loose, flaky flaps. 

“So,” said Jesus, with the spirit of someone drastically changing the subject, “this no-kissing thing you’ve got.”

“Ah, hell.”

“You’re gonna break it.”

Daryl looked over at him. His hair rippling in the wind like the Walker’s loose skin. His eyes, big and grinning. His neat little beard and ... distractingly smiling mouth. Daryl rummaged for another handful of pretzels and tipped them messily into his mouth. “Ya think?” he said, purposefully scattering crumbs. 

Jesus nodded with all kinds of confidence. “Tomorrow. You’re gonna have your tongue down my throat. And vice versa.”   

Daryl smacked his lips and licked salt off his fingers. “Doubt it.”

“Oh, I think you will.”

“Cocky prick.” Daryl squinted at him. “Don’t laugh at that.”

The smile he got was teasing and aggravating, and made something deep in Daryl stir, like still water suddenly swirling. “Think about it,” Jesus said, nudging Daryl with his shoulder. “Tonight, just ... think about it. By tomorrow, yeah.” Jesus grinned. “You’ll be kissing me.”

Daryl turned back to the speared Walker, and dug into the bag of pretzels. “Full of shit,” he grumbled.

Jesus was laughing, and Daryl biting his cheeks not to grin, when the rattle of footfalls brought Rick up the ladder.

For some reason, Daryl smashed the bag of pretzels and practically sat on it, like that was anything to hide. Jesus snickered, which Daryl was definitely going to make him pay for. Like he’d ever swap spit with that jackass.

“Hey.” Rick leaned against the top of the ladder. Daryl and Jesus looked over their shoulders at him, squinting in the sunlight. “Just talked to Abraham. We were thinking of getting back out there tomorrow, finishing up the mall. Leave around dawn so we have all day to look. You in?”

“Sounds good,” Daryl grunted. The words were gravel in his throat. Jesus was sitting shoulder to shoulder with him. Rick had to notice that.

If he did, he didn’t say a thing about it. Rick turned to Jesus. “Glenn’s willing to go with us if you’d rather stay here. You don’t have to put your neck out, scavenging for us.”

Jesus opened his mouth and then closed it. He glanced at Daryl. Rick made an annoyingly good point: Jesus wasn’t from Alexandria. And he’d probably be of more use here, helping them compile information on Negan, than risking his neck for pencils and expired snacks.

“Glenn shouldn’t go out so much, with Maggie and all,” Daryl heard himself say. He squinted through the hair that had fallen across his eyes, first at Rick, then, fleetingly, at Jesus. Why the hell couldn’t his mouth stop flying off like that? He needed to take a vow of silence. Or cut out his damn tongue.

_Tomorrow. You’re gonna have your tongue down my throat. And vice versa._

Shit. 

“I don’t mind. Sounds like you need all the help you get,” Jesus said, reasonably and evenly, like he had total control of his vocal chords, the bragging asshole. 

“Thank you. I mean it, we misjudged your—” Ah, crap. Rick was getting all sincere. He kept talking, spilling out a few lines of gratitude, about all the good the Hilltop’s medical supplies were doing for Alexandria’s sick, and how the seeds were filling out the garden beds. Jesus said whatever, kept bowing his head in deep nods that made him look like he was cradling the weight of a real goddamn halo. Daryl was so busy glaring down at that Walker on the fence poles—he’d shuffled forward until he’d ripped a big enough hole in his gut to spill a sausage-link spool of intestines—he didn’t notice Rick was gone until Jesus had sighed, clapped his knees, and stood up, blocking out the sun.

“Think about it,” he said again, and, with a quick dance of his fingers over Daryl’s hair (Daryl didn’t quite jerk away fast enough) Jesus headed back down the ladder. 

Daryl glared at that Walker as it reached mindlessly forwards, oblivious to its own rotting guts spilling over the grass. Stupid son of a bitch had gone too far down the trap, now. No way in hell was it getting out. 

#

“Looks like somebody’s already been in here.”

They had been in the strip mall for hours, toeing through the darkened, muggy shops. This one was a tiny grocery store, and there was no question: the shelves had long since been picked clean. There _were_  some packages of Wonderbread by the register, but that shit had long lost its fluffy white consistency. Daryl would’ve rather eaten the roaches crawling over it. 

He and Jesus crept through the wreckage, knives up, flashlights bouncing off the empty display shelves and crumpled boxes strewn over the floor. Movement in the corner jerked Daryl around so fast he cricked his neck, but it was only a rat, skittering away from them.

Daryl contemplated hurling his knife at it, but the poor thing was too scrawny to be any good for eating.

The back room was blocked with a shelving unit, and someone had carved into the door,  _Biters inside_. When Daryl leaned against the frame to listen, he could hear the gentle shuffling of dragging footsteps.

“Only two of ‘em, I think. Maybe three.”

Jesus shook out his shoulders, knife raised. “We can take that.”

“Yeah.”

Jesus dragged the shelf aside, and crouched, ready to pounce, as Daryl cracked open the door. Like Daryl expected, there only two Walkers inside, and they were stupid ones. Their faces were smashed in from knocking against the barred door; one of them had its nose dangling off, hanging on by a string of rotten skin. Their skulls practically collapsed under Daryl’s knife. He kicked them out of the way of the door. 

This room had a skylight pouring down sun, illuminating steel shelving units and dust-caked cardboard boxes. There was a couch in one corner, its cushions knocked on the floor. A bulletin board splashed with blood. Tables cluttered the middle space. One had an old soda can sitting on it, still upright. Ants poured out of the top.

Daryl turned towards Jesus, and clicked off his flashlight. It was bright enough in here to see. Jesus did the same, with a note of excitement Daryl tried not to encourage.

“Why’re you doin' this?” he asked. He was thinking about that rat, not worth killing. 

“Why am I … doing what?” said Jesus, frowning.

Daryl’s lips twisted. “Was it just ‘cause, like you said … I was on my own? You figured you had an easy target?”

“What?” Jesus’s eyes went wide. He stepped forward, and Daryl stepped back. “No, come on.”

“Why the hell else? You ain't like me. We don’t got shit in common. Besides—” He waved dismissively between them, “—both liking that.”

Jesus laughed, but not like he found this funny. Like he had no idea where this conversation had come from.

Daryl had no idea either, to be honest.

Jesus shrugged. “I—I don't know. I like you.”

“Bullshit.”

“I  _do_. You’re—funny.”

Daryl snorted with derision.

Jesus's eyebrows narrowed. His mouth twitched. “And it’s easy to get you all riled up. All embarrassed.”

“I ain’t embarrassed.” Which was a bald-faced lie.

Jesus was grinning now, maddeningly. “For someone who acts so confident, you sure as hell got flustered when I tried to kiss you.”

“And that gets you off? _Pissing_ me off?”

Jesus grinned again. “Little boys on playgrounds don’t pull pigtails for nothing.”

“Bullshit.” But Daryl’s cheeks were inflamed again, radiating heat.

Jesus tilted his head to the side. “If I tried to kiss you right now, would you kick my ass?”

“Yes,” Daryl answered, way too quickly.

Jesus only grinned wider. He took a step forward, into Daryl’s space. “What about now?”

“Yeah,” Daryl grunted, though his voice had lost a little of its edge.

Jesus rolled his eyes and took another exaggerated step forward, until his toes were brushing Daryl’s and their noses were bumping.

"What about if I asked you now?"

Daryl breathed, and watched Jesus’s hair flutter. “Asshole,” he mumbled, and he was the one to lurch forward and smash their lips together.

They stumbled backwards, groping blindly—Jesus knocked into a chair, sent it toppling over, and pinned Daryl up against that blood-stained cork board. The way Jesus grabbed at him, sucked at him, s’like Jesus was dying of thirst and Daryl was some clear gushing spring of fresh water. Hands sunk into Daryl’s hair, grabbing, tugging; Daryl had no intention of letting Jesus rip into his scalp like this, but he couldn’t stop kissing him long enough to complain. Which was bullshit. It wasn’t even  _that_  good. It was just—different. 

Daryl was used to being alone. Used to having distance, used to stepping back whenever someone got too close. But right now, his back was up against a wall and he didn’t even feel cornered. He felt...  _covered_. Jesus had thrown himself over Daryl like some warm, slightly suffocating blanket. Daryl’s own hands continued the betrayal of his tongue, and his vocal chords, and every other part of him that went haywire the last time they were in this mall. His hands pawed at Jesus’s shirt, clawed at his stomach; one even snuck around and grabbed itself a handful of ass. Jesus laughed into Daryl’s mouth, which would’ve been embarrassing, but then Daryl squeezed, and Jesus let out a groan that Daryl felt like he swallowed—Maybe Jesus wasn’t the problem. Maybe he was some big damn solution.

Now, there’s something Daryl should’ve considered, and would’ve, had more oxygen been getting through to his brain. Jesus knocking that chair over made an audible clatter as it toppled to the floor. Daryl didn’t give a shit about this, he was too busy enjoying the effects of a tongue crammed in his mouth, and he knew there weren’t any more Walkers in the shop. 

But Rick and Abraham, who had finished their section of the strip mall and made it to the grocer’s to meet Daryl and Jesus in the middle, didn’t know that. When they heard the chair topple over, they thought something that should’ve been dead was lumbering through the back room, so they raised their knives, and they crept up to the partially open door, and, with a nod to each other and a hand motion that signified a silent plan, they burst into the room to find—

“Shit on a biscuit,” said Abraham.

“ _Shit_.” Daryl and Jesus wrenched apart, and without thinking Daryl shoved Jesus away from him. The poor guy toppled backwards over the fallen chair. He shot back to his feet, clutching the waistband of his pants. Oh, right. Daryl had been yanking those off him.

Abraham looked like a cartoon character. There was no other description for it. His pug nose, his mouth hanging open in a perfect circle, his blue eyes popping out from under that ridiculously orange and square hair. Behind him, Rick was – Daryl turned his back, swept his hair out of his face. Rick was  _grinning_ , which Daryl didn’t need to see right now.

No one said anything. Even Jesus, discreetly zipping his pants back up, couldn’t quite find his voice. Daryl wished his hair weren’t so flung all over the place. His stupid little hat was barely hanging on by an ear. Daryl still had his back to the door. His hands, for some reason, had landed on his hips.

“Guess we know why y'all only brought _pretzels_  back from yer last run,” Abraham’s booming voice rang out, cradled with laughter. Daryl chanced a glance, saw Rick grinning even wider, and turned around again.

“There’s—uh.” Dang, his voice was hoarse. “There’s nothing in here.” And with quick, slouching movements he scooped his bag off the floor, flung it over his shoulder, and made for the door.

Abraham’s voice stopped him. “Did you even get to  _looking_  in here? ‘Cause I sure as shit see an untouched vending machine in the corner.”

Daryl stopped, pivoted, and looked. Storage boxes stood in stacks all over the room.  _Charmin_ , said one of them.  _Zephyrhills,_  said another. And yeah, like Abraham said, there was a vending machine right there in the corner, untouched, candy bars and packets of chips peering out from behind the dusty glass. 

Daryl didn’t say a word. He stomped back into the room, cracked open the first box he reached, and started loading fistfuls of whatever was inside into his bag.

“Hey, Daryl,” Rick said gently, coming up behind him. “We don’t actually have a great need for packing peanuts.”

Son of a bitch. Abraham’s massive shoulders were bobbing in silent laughter. And Daryl’s head had completely disconnected itself from reality. He swore under his breath, dumped the little Styrofoam nuggets out of his bag, and tried to take a deep breath. More rattling than waking up to a Walker chewing on your foot, this was. He glanced at the others. Abraham had sidled up to the vending machine. Rick was leaning against the shelf nearest Daryl, enjoying himself way too damn much. And Jesus was picking the tape of the box of toilet paper—he at least had the decency to look embarrassed. 

“So, uh.” Oh, great, Rick was going to make this worse. He cleared his throat, and affected a terrible impression of Daryl, “‘ _I'll take Jesus'_ , huh?  _'I’d rather keep m’eye on him_ '?"

"Shut up," growled Daryl.

“Keepin’ more on him than jus’ yer eyes,” Abraham mused, and let out a bark of laughter. Even Jesus, hair swinging in his face, was grinning. The hell with all of them. 

Rick, shaking his head and snickering, sauntered over to the nearest stack of boxes and began sorting through them, while Abraham jimmied the vending machine open and set about filling a sack with old chocolate bars and packets of nuts. Nobody said anything for a while, and the tension in Daryl’s back was so tight he could’ve snapped something.

“You won’t say nothing, right?” he blurted, not daring to look at anyone in particular.

There was a pause, and then Abraham snorted. “Damn, son, who’d believe us?”

Rick laughed, and even Daryl found himself snorting, more out of relief than any good humor. He threw his bag over his shoulder and slouched out the door.

Jesus, with a shy, rather sly grin at Rick and Abraham, picked up the box of toilet paper and went to follow Daryl out. Only, Abraham and Rick, who suddenly didn’t seem to have a trace of humor about them, blocked his exit.

“Listen for one second,” said Abraham, crowding Jesus’s space. “Daryl’s a stubborn, unpleasant, shy son of a bitch — and if you hurt a hair on his head we will strip you down, peel off your testicles, and tie them around your neck till you choke to death, do we have an understanding?”

Jesus started to smile.

Rick slid in front of him. He barely moved a facial muscle. “That’s not an idle threat.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” Jesus blinked. “I got it.”

A growl came from the doorway and Daryl stomped back into the room. “What are y'all – c’mon, damn it.” And he grabbed Jesus’s shoulder and dragged him out from between Rick and Abraham, who stared Jesus down like two guard dogs with raised hackles.

They were all idiots, Daryl thought, snorting to himself. Every one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> *Eep* I hope you liked it, I haven't posted fic (or written fic, or _contemplated_ writing fic) in a very long time. Leave a comment if you did, I'd love to hear from other Daryl/Jesus victims out there. ;)


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